


Let Them Eat Cake

by Davechicken



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the bomb didn't go off at Miles' birthday party in 1.20 things might have gone a lot differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Them Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the lovely people of twitter: @Skippy9474 @AolFangirl @Candyrose_BTV @VanessaJHx @Evenstar1002 
> 
> You deserve this.
> 
> And thanks to Shadow_Side for beta duties.

By the time they are finished drinking, Miles and Bass have gone through every single birthday they've spent together. (Which is every one they can remember, apart from Miles' twelfth, when his parents thought it would be good to go on vacation. After the sullen expression and snappy responses for the entirety of the trip, his parents realised that 'No, Bass can't come, it's a family thing' was not the best way to celebrate his last year before becoming a teenager, and nothing short of a nuclear apocalypse would ever see them blowing out candles alone ever again.) 

It's not even like they tell the stories to anyone else. They don't need anyone else. They just need one another, same as always. A torrent of tall tales (getting taller by the year) and half-forgotten drunken parties filled with escapades that make much more sense now, through the eyes of a lover rather than those of a best friend.

Like the time in Vegas, which Bass still swears he remembers even if Miles swears he's making it up. But he forgives him, even if he is making it up, because the story is just too good not to be true. And also because Miles forgives Bass everything, in the end. He can't not. Bass just looks at him with those sparkling blue eyes and Miles knows he's fucked. Well and truly. Heart and soul. 

Eventually, though, they run out of birthdays. They don't run out of alcohol, but as Miles swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he knows it's the last one. Knows it's time to stop. Not because he has to, but because he wants to. He puts the glass to his lips and lets the sweet sting of it kiss the back of his throat - eyes closed in pleasure. It's the good stuff, and he knows Bass has saved it specially. He knows because Bass always does this. He always goes over the top to make everything wonderful. (Even if that one-legged stripper had been a bit terrifying, Miles will always agree she certainly was special.)

He puts the glass down and pushes it over the tablecloth. It drags and pulls at the fabric. When he looks up, he can see Bass is smiling at him in that too-intent way he has that means he's got something planned. The man is just utterly incapable of lying to him about things like this, and Miles long ago learned to not worry about the fact he can tell, and instead just wait for the inevitable Bass Monroe Plan to come out and make him smile.

"You want another?" Bass asks, nodding at the empty glass. 

"I think I've had enough for the night," Miles replies, truthfully. "I don't want to wake up naked and painted interesting colours again."

"I left my paints back in... the past..." Bass' smile goes wolfish. "But I guess I could re-awaken The Painter."

"No... no it's okay. I'm done. Let's leave this joint," Miles suggests, pushing his chair back and getting slowly to his feet.

"Anything you say, Birthday Boy."

Miles is trying to be discreet. He is. He's aware that most of the Militia and most of the population of Philadelphia (and Georgia. And Texas. And California) must know they are fucking like bunnies, but he still doesn't really go in for making it blatantly obvious. Well. As much as he can. But it's sort of hard to hide the fact that when they vanish rapidly from a social gathering or meeting, it's because one or both of them has decided it's a good time to have a lot of very good sex.

A lot.

So when Bass' tongue sneaks out over his lips for just a minute, it sends a shiver of lust and embarrassment through him. He wants that tongue. He wants those lips. He wants the whole damn package. And when Bass looks at him like he's the sexiest thing on the planet... Miles' cheeks burn and he's sure everyone in the room knows that the minute they're out of earshot they'll be screaming one another's names.

Miles swallows. Hard. The air is getting thicker, and so is his cock. The sooner they get to somewhere private, the better.

"I'll remind you that you said that, later," he tells Bass, though his voice sounds strained even to his own ears. "Come on, General. Let's call it a night."

"And to think the strippers didn't even get here," Bass replies with that damned twinkle in his eyes. "You're getting old if this is your idea of fun."

"Bite me," Miles retorts. "You're only a few months away."

"But I will always be a few months away, Miles. That's how time works."

There is no winning with Bass when he is in this kind of a mood, so Miles just shrugs. "So listen to your elders and betters and move."

Bass stands and bows slightly from the waist. "I will, General. Lead on."

They leave the bar and walk back towards the building they call home. Miles is still a bit overwhelmed by it, even now. Even knowing they rule over countless little villages and towns and massive fucking cities. It's just still a bit surreal. They talk as they walk, and Bass is charming as ever but never quite overtly flirty. It's like the man took a master class in how to turn simple things into 'Have Sex With Me'. He can say the most innocent of things in the most warm and welcoming of voices and Miles can read dick in every other word.

Or maybe that's because his dick is very much trying to take over right now. The nice buzz from the booze is making his hands itch to punch or grab, and the sharp Spring air makes his chest do that thing it does. You know. _That thing_.

So they walk back to their room and Miles _knows_ something is up. Because Bass is back to hyperactive mode, and is practically bouncing with every step. He's giddy and veering all over the place and there's no way that's the alcohol talking because he's seen the man put away ten times as much and still be clear-headed enough to walk in a straight line and shoot you. He sometimes wonders if Bass enjoys his birthdays more than his own, because he puts so much effort into it that Miles is ashamed when he can't do the same in return.

"You're gonna have to tell me," he says, when they get to the door.

Bass whirls on his heel. "Tell you what?"

"Why you're in such a good mood," Miles replies, pacing in closer. Braver, now there's no one around. No one around to see him back Bass up against the door.

"Why wouldn't I be in a good mood?" Bass asks, trying to play coy and failing miserably.

"This is 'good' even by your standards." Miles crowds in close, putting a hand on either side of the man's head. Pinning him, but without violence. "I know you, Bass. I know the way your mind works."

Bass leans forwards and sneaks a kiss. "And you still love me," he says, even as his hands go behind him and open the door anyway.

This? Miles was not quite expecting. So when Bass steps backwards through the door, and the wood gives way under his hands, Miles carries on going and ends up half falling into Bass' arms. Yeah. Maybe he has had a little bit too much to drink, if he's that clumsy.

Bass' arms go around him at once, and he catches the little stagger with ease. Hot, happy laughter in his ear. "Got you."

"So you did," Miles agrees, enjoying the sudden closeness. He takes another step into the room and his hands go down to grab Bass' ass. Pulling him up and in. "So... is it time for my present?" 

And yes. He knows he's drawling. And he knows he's being filthy. And he knows he's feeling Bass' cock straining at the front of his trousers. And he knows if he just moves a little - just like that - oh god yes - that he can hump the man's leg.

"Depends if you're gonna let go of me or not." Bass has his arms around Miles' shoulders, and is all too happily grinding back against him. 

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you want your present."

"I have it right here to unwrap..." He pushes a hand under Bass' waistband, fingers trailing over soft flesh.

Bass hisses and pushes at his shoulders. "In a minute," he complains. "You have another present first."

Miles smirks and pulls back just a little. "I knew it."

"Stop being so fucking smug!"

"I'm old. I'm allowed."

Bass makes an exasperated sound and shoves him backwards. Miles lets him, laughing as he does. He knows if Bass is putting off the damn good sex, then there has to be a reason. He also knows that you don't get in the way of a Bass Monroe Plan if you know what's good for you, because if the man is wonderful when he's happy he's a fucking nightmare when he's pissed at you.

(Other than the hot, sweaty, angry sex. And the hot, sweaty make-up sex. That's sometimes worth the ire.)

"Stay here," Bass instructs him. "And close your fucking eyes."

"Language," Miles says, as he lets his eyes drift shut. Which he knows he has no right to call him on, but he's feeling sassy too.

He counts the steps Bass takes, and listens for the direction to try and get a clue. It doesn't help him any, but does leave him more curious what the fuck Bass has hidden in the room. For a horrible moment he wonders if he did get him a stripper or a blow up doll for old time's sake. He tries to peek through his eyes.

"Shut!" Bass snaps. "I can see what you're doing, Miles!"

"You take too long."

"You're not going to die today, you stupid shit. Now hold out your hands before I change my mind."

Miles rolls his closed eyes, and does as he's told. Which is when Bass puts something heavy and square on them. At least it feel sort of square. He shifts his hands a bit to try and see if it will make a noise or shift, but stops the minute Bass squawks in protest.

"Fine. Fine. Can I look now?"

"Are you gonna say pretty please?"

"Probably not."

"Okay... fine."

Miles opens his eyes and looks down.

It's a cake. It's a fucking birthday cake. Bass has got him a birthday cake. 

When he looks up, Bass is doing that thing where he shifts his weight from one foot to another and looks like he might bolt out the room. "Happy birthday?"

Miles looks down. "Is it...?"

"Coconut?" Bass asks, his lips quirking into a smile. "Fuck, no. It's chocolate. I had Jeremy bake it specially. It's got fudge sauce."

Miles looks back down at the cake. His cake. His chocolate cake. It even has a fucking M painted on it in white icing. 

"Fuck me," is all he can say.

"Well. I was hoping for something along those lines after the cake," Bass agrees, reaching out to trail a finger along Miles' arm from wrist to elbow. "You want me to cut you a slice?"

He shifts the cake onto one hand, and grabs Bass' with his other. "I do. I really fucking do. You have no idea how much I want this cake."

One perfectly arched eyebrow. "Really?"

"Fuck, yes," Miles says. And who knows. Maybe it's the fucking drink talking, but... cake. Cake, man. Bass had someone bake him a cake. Maybe he should destroy Texas for Bass' birthday. It would be about equal.

Bass takes the cake from him and goes over to the desk. He puts the cake down and then... "Fuck. I should have asked for a knife. And plates. And forks. And shit..."

Miles laughs and walks up to press against his back. "You have a knife," he points out. "And I don't need a plate."

"Yeah... but it was a bit shitty of me," Bass sighs. "I can send for some..."

Bass turns in his arms, but Miles won't back up. He stays crowding close to him and when he's facing him, he takes it as the perfect opportunity to plant a gentle kiss to the side of his neck.

"I want you right here, Bass."

Bass actually blushes, which makes Miles' heart melt all over again. How many years, and the man still blushes?

"Okay... but don't say I didn't warn you..."

Hands up to his throat, tugging that collar loose. Working slowly down to peel the jacket and shirt off him. Bass' breath hitches and his hands move to do the same to Miles.

"No..." Miles says, taking Bass' hands gently. "I want to unwrap _my_ present."

He likes the way Bass' knees sort of wibble at that, and he pushes in to swallow any protest from his lips as he tugs stiff fabric down. He's aware there's cake and he doesn't want to make a mess of it, so he urges Bass sideways until he's away from the desk and he walks him until they find the bed. Which they do. And then his hands move faster. He yanks the jacket off and flings it off somewhere. Then the shirt. Then he shoves Bass backwards onto the bed.

Bass lies sprawled in the middle of the mattress. Looking up at him with hope and glee. Fuck but he loves how happy he makes him. Loves how happy Bass makes him. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight before he has his hands on the man's belt and is dragging his trousers and boxers off, too.

"You're forgetting your cake," Bass chides him. "Jeremy would be so disappointed."

"Fuck Jeremy." Miles shakes his head. "And I haven't forgotten the cake. Not at all."

Which catches Bass by surprise. Which is a rare enough occurrence in and of itself.

"Not forgot about the cake?"

"Bass, how drunk are you?"

"Not enough."

"Stay here. Close your eyes."

"Miles, it's _your_ birthday, not mine."

"Yeah. So you gotta do what I say. So close your goddamn eyes, General."

Bass makes a show of sighing, but he does. Miles draws his own knife - watching as Bass' jaw twitches at the sound - then he goes over to cut himself a very healthy slice of cake. 

And fuck, but it looks like good cake, too. It's all soft and springy and there's just enough frosting on the top and there's a healthy bleed out of fudgey sauce from the middle. Jeremy might be a good soldier, but he must have been a fucking chef before the blackout, even if he won't admit it.

"...Miles?"

"You're always impatient, Bass. Just hold on a second."

"...okay."

He balances the chocolatey wedge on the knife, then goes back over to his almost-naked lover. Who - for once - is not trying to peek through his eyelids. He must really want to be good for Miles' birthday. 

So Miles stands above him, lowers the knife to an inch over his belly... and tips the cake all over his stomach.

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

Miles bites his lip not to laugh. Bass has forgotten the rule about eyes shut, and is staring up at him in shock.

"You forgot the plate," Miles reminds him. "So I'm improvising."

"I nearly had a heart attack, Miles."

"It's not like you're allergic, Bass. Quit whining. I'm hungry."

"You," Bass says accusingly, "are a monster."

Miles shrugs, and puts the knife on the bedside table. "I'm hungry," he repeats, and drops to his knees at the foot of the bed. He grabs Bass by the ankles and yanks him down until his legs bend over the edge, and his crotch is lined up with is face.

"Fuck!"

Miles laughs hotly over Bass' straining cock. "Maybe later," he says, and arches up to start eating the cake.

"FUCK! Oh, fuck... yes... shit... oh fuck why does that feel good?"

Miles is trying very hard not to laugh as he takes bites from the splogey cake mess currently decorating Bass' stomach. Whenever he drops crumbs, he chases them with his tongue. Unfortunately that just serves to smear more of the frosting all over him. And damn, but the cake tastes good.

"Miles... Miles... MILES?"

Miles swats Bass on the hip to get him to shut up, as he eats the last of the cakey-bits. He's deliberately left a rather large smear of the frosting, but Bass might not know that yet.

"Will you please stop interrupting?" Miles asks, kneeling up to peer critically up at him.

"I'm not!"

"It's rude to talk with your mouth full," Miles reminds him. And then he drags his tongue through the last smudge of the chocolate mess, tracking it down onto Bass' cock. The scream he gets in return is gratifyingly loud and just as good as the cake.

Thankfully Bass decides to stop complaining, which means Miles can hold his hips down with both hands as he finishes painting a sugary mess all over his length. He does push up a few times, but Miles just holds him down.

"Fuck..." Bass adds. "Oh... fuck. Yes... oh god yes... just there... oh fuck, Miles! Harder! Please just fucking do it!"

Miles decides he quite likes that idea anyway. It was totally his own idea and Bass just jumped in on it, of course. Like he normally does. So he presses his lips around the tip and sucks. Hard. 

Bass' hands hit the mattress. Hard. And again. And he makes another of those desperate sounds and tries to push up.

Miles holds him down. It's his fucking birthday. It's his fucking cake. And it's his fucking Bass. He sucks harder until his cheeks hollow and it's kind of difficult and makes his face hurt a little - ignoring the strangled scream he pulls out of Bass - and then he drops his head down and starts sucking him off in earnest. The chocolate is gone in next to no time, blending to the taste of him. All sweat and lust and... Bass. The taste that just defies any other definition than his name. He sucks and swallows and when Bass' hands move to rest on his head (just resting, not pushing, not pulling, not holding) he rubs his thumbs over Bass' hips to say yes.

And Bass knows. Bass knows he's said yes. And Bass cries out in pleasure and spills in his mouth. Miles grins and swallows that, too. Swallows the sharp taste of him, letting it all slide down his throat as Bass tenses under him and his feet drum against the side of the bed and finally - finally - he goes limp as a rag.

Miles finishes swallowing, and sits back enough to lick the remaining marks from his skin. He lingers longer than he has to, before he looks up to see Bass' face slack and relaxed. Head dropped back and chest rising and falling steadily.

"The cake's good," he says, voice rough and scratchy and ridiculously turned on.

Bass laughs. "Is it time for my slice, now?"

"You know... I think I'm ready to share..."


End file.
